Boulders in cant-style hurtling through space.
by Marion Poschmann
Heads of famous men hanging on house walls.
All made of stone. The naval choir singing its song
of the Apocalyse at a volume even hard-of-hearing
veterans can hear. Heads on house walls.
Portrait likeness, free of weeds.
The naval choir sings its song of the German café
and the Russian signpost. Sings of tips pointed towards the
West, half-erected ships and aircraft, front page
evidence, the sun gliding along their hulls and fuselages, parading
daily on city squares for each unenlightened soul out wandering
in the midday sun.
Elsewhere bones and emotional baggage: medals, shells and
boys in uniform. Sentiment, sediment, patriots. What is sedimenting
down in the memory's layers, and what is resting? Through the shuffle of shoes
of unknown passers-by men are now moving with fishing rods and camouflage gear.
Their collective excess in what feels like green: patch patterns, stripe patterns,
Translation Catherine Hales